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Updated: May 1, 2025
"Well, what have you to say in your defense?" The way Barbran's eyebrows went up constituted in itself a defense fit to move any jury to acquittal. "For what?" she asked. "For corrupting my young friend Stacey. You made him paint those pictures." "They're very nice," returned Barbran demurely. "Quite true to the subject." "They're awful. They're an offense to civilization.
I peered at him with anxiety. "Terry," I inquired, "how is your nose?" "Keen, Dominie," said Terry. He sniffed the air. "Don't you detect the smell of illegal alcohol?" "I can't say I do." "It's very plain," declared the officer wriggling his nasal organ which, I was vastly relieved to observe, retained its original hue. "Wouldn't you say, Dominie, it comes from yonder cellar?" "Barbran's cellar?
Barbran's eyes were as soft and happy as ever in the evenings, when she and Phil sat in a less and less interrupted solitude. But in the mornings palpable fear stalked her. Phil never saw it. He was preoccupied with a dread of his own. One evening of howling wind and hammering rain, when all was cosy and home-like for two in the little firelit Wrightery, she nerved herself up to facing the facts.
How often have I seen it, preceding some sordid or brave tragedy of want and wretchedness in Our Square! What should it mean, though, on Barbran's sunny face? Puzzling over the question I put it to the Bonnie Lassie. "Read me a riddle, O Lady of the Wise Heart. Of what is a child of fortune, young, strong, and charming, afraid?"
The awful and unsuspected results I beheld on my first visit of patronage to Barbran's cellar, the occasion being the formal opening. A large and curious crowd of five persons, including myself and Phil Stacey, were there. Outside, an old English design of a signboard with a wheel on it creaked despairingly in the wind. Below was a legend: "At the Sign of the Wheel The Wrightery."
At the time we were passing the house in which the insecticidal Angel of Death takes carefully selected and certified lodgers. "I know whom you mean," said the Bonnie Lassie, pointing up to the little dormer window which was Barbran's outlook on life. "Interpret me a signal. What do you see up there?" "It appears to be a handkerchief pasted to the window," said I adjusting my glasses.
With one of her home-laundered handkerchiefs dipped in turpentine, she gently rubbed it clean. So she kissed it. Then she tried to run away. The attempt failed. It was not Barbran's nose that got kissed next. Nor, for that matter, was it young Phil's.
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